


Empty

by A_BadSpellr



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Lonely Oliver, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6639976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_BadSpellr/pseuds/A_BadSpellr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he was honest with himself, no one could help him. He didn’t actually want help.  It was easier to hurt. Pain was a friend, a feeling that grounded him and kept him sane. But the more he tried to work through it, the more it hurt. This pain was a monster, tearing him apart from the inside.It left behind anger and sadness, a bottomless hole of shame and self-loathing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I've been sitting on this for a while, but never knew how it would go. Now I do.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNIING! This is not a happy story. Don't expect it to be. This is about working through your emotions on your own.

Empty. No more laughter, no more loud voices, no more whispered words of love. No couch, no chairs, no table. No more warm looks to start the day, no more deep looks of challenge, no more soft looks for acceptance and compassion. No more bed, no more dressers or bedside tables. No more furniture or clothes.

No more _Home._

The walls did nothing to muffle the sounds of his footsteps when he entered. It was dark now. The lights stayed off. The city lights were enough illumination for him. Anymore light and he would see the hollow shell this place had become since she left.

Just like him.

She had made him so much more than he was. She showed him that he could be better than the island, better than Ollie. She believed in him when he couldn’t, she trusted him when he couldn’t, she loved him even when she shouldn’t. She had fought and fought for him. She had fought to save his live and his soul. They both belonged to her. She had opened up his heart in ways he never thought were possible.

She ripped it away when she left.

Everything was so difficult now. Diggle couldn’t help him with his problems. He was too busy trying to be a hero, a husband, a brother, and a father. He couldn’t bring this into his friend’s life. He wished that his brother in arms could bring her back, but he knew she wouldn’t come.

Thea wouldn’t be able to help. She couldn’t understand what he was feeling, no matter how much she wanted to and she knew it. That wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t him. It was that simple.

Laurel was the only one who he could talk to, but his friend would only remind him that this was Felicity’s choice, and that he needed to let her go. She would only come back if he gave her what she wanted; time and space.

If he was honest with himself, no one could help him. He didn’t actually want help. It was easier to wallow. It was easier to hurt. Pain was a friend, a feeling that grounded him and kept him sane. But the more he tried to work through it, the more it hurt. This pain was a monster, tearing him apart from the inside. It burned every part of him, stripping away the happy thoughts and emotions she helped him find again. It left behind anger and sadness, a bottomless hole of shame and self-loathing. He hated how worthless and pointless he felt.

He deserved all of it.

This is how it was supposed to be. It was this why when he first came back, it was this way when he first met Felicity. He should have died alone down in the Foundry, working to make up for his father’s wrong as well as his own. He had told them as much. _She_ had been the one who told him he could be more. She had made him want to do more than survive. She made him want to _live._

He walked to the center of the loft on autopilot. He had done this every night for a week. Every night since he woke up in the middle of the first night without her next to him. It had sent him into a fit of rage that saw every single piece of furniture thrown or broken. He had paid the movers to come back and clean it up discreetly, leaving the loft empty and cold. There were only two items in the apartment now.

The ring and a combat knife.

He moved to sit in front of the ring, his knees close to his chest and his arms resting on them. He picked up the knife and held it loosely in his right hand. He reached for the ring and held it in his left. The ring was a source of pain, a physical manifestation of all he had lost and the future he could no longer have. It represented everything he wanted to escape from. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.

The knife. It was carbon, matte black and unreflective. It was a weapon he was very familiar with. He had carried one for the better part of three years after getting to Hong Kong. He knew where to hold it for balance, the best knife fighting grip as well as the best cut to make someone bleed to death.

The light scars that littered his wrist made him sigh. He had tried that the second night without her, so caught up in the pain. He just wanted it to stop. But he couldn’t do it. He pressed the knife down again and again, night after night. Sometimes he drew blood, other times he stopped short. Every time, he saw her face and paused. He wanted to see her. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, make love to her, talk to her, stand next to her, listen to her ramble and laugh…

He was afraid to die.

There was a point in time where he could have simply stabbed the knife through his throat in a bathtub and been done with it. But there had always been another target, another mission, another fight. There was always a way to prolong it. The moments where felt his lowest, where he wanted more than anything to just not feel, those were the times he fought his hardest to live. It was the quiet moments that made him _hurt._ He heard the voices of the people he wronged, calling out to him.

Slut, addict, drunk, weak, uncaring, murderer, monster, liar.

The monikers were branded onto his heart, never letting him forgive or accept. She had been the only thing he could use to move past them after Tommy died. Without her the voices had returned with a vengeance, reminding him he was garbage, human trash; a monster with nothing to give anyone except pain. The world would be a far better place without him in it.

He put the knife against his throat, the steel of the blade edge was cold against his skin. He pressed, adding pressure to the blade. His hand felt light; the knife didn’t waver. This time he could do it. Tonight it would end, he knew it. He began to pull the knife across his throat when a new voice called to him. It was a voice that he knew like his own name. It was soft and kind, a voice and tone reserved only for him.

_Oliver._

He threw the knife across the room and screamed. Why was she still in his head? She had left in every other possible way. She had done all she could to remove herself from his life. She had made it clear that they could not _be together._ But she kept stopping him. She kept saying his name like she still loved him, like she would hold him and take all of his pain away. He wanted her to save him. He wanted her to put him back together and love him. He wanted to be selfish and want her.

It made him sick.

He curled up as the tears started to fall. He laid on his side and hugged his knees to his chest. Everything hurt so much. He couldn’t hold it in right now. If he kept it in any longer he would explode.

He would put his mask back on tomorrow. He would tell them he was fine. He would tell them that they could all say her name in front of him because it didn’t cut through him like a sword. He would tell them that it was perfectly fine for them to be in her because it didn’t feel like the sword was being twisted around in his gut. He would tell them that they didn’t have to worry about him because if they looked close enough they would see all of his new scars.

But right now, he wanted to be selfish. Right now, he wanted to cry. But he still felt the need to hurt himself. It was the only reason for wanting to say it. He was a broken; he didn’t care anymore.

“Felicity…I love you…please…”

He cried through the night, like he wanted to almost every night since she left.

**Author's Note:**

> So this piece was slightly cathartic for me, since I used some of my own personal experience in it. I'm all good now, but there was a point where I wasn't. I wanted help, but more than that, I thought I deserved the way I felt. Oliver has way more problems and issues than I did, so without Felicity next to him or an enemy to fight, I figured he would have run out of outlets. This is just the culmination of all that. It isn't Oliver being weak or lonely. Its about a man who has lived through a decade's worth of pain and loss finally dealing with all of it at once.


End file.
